Lord, for the one who dies alone

This night without companion,

I cannot rest, I cannot sleep.

O shepherd of the piteous sheep

Run with Thy crook, and lift in haste

The poor head to Thy loving breast.

Oh slake his deadly thirst from streams

Of Paradise, and give him dreams

Of the mild weather, the green sward.

Bind up his bitter wounds, O Lord,

And give him comfort. Let him know

His Shepherd 'tis that loves him so.

Thou countest Thy flock: not one is lost

But Thou goest seeking, for Thou knowest

The poor things creep away to die

Where none shall find save Thou art nigh.

Thou tak'st them to Thy arms, Thy knees,

And Thy sick lambs have sweetest ease.

Now I shall close my eyes in sleep,

Nor fret since they are Thine to keep,

Oh, happy sheep, to have such care,

The poorest, Love's own prisoner,

Who comforts as his mother might,

Rocking him into sleep at night.